


Runner Confined

by orro



Category: Zombies Run!
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 16:31:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orro/pseuds/orro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your leg wobbles a little as you run past the gates into Abel Township. Before anyone can notice, you slow down, waving to Evan up in the tower to let him know you’re fine. Runner Seven is observant and he would definitely notice if you were off. But you’re not exhausted, not the bone deep kind that needs medical attention and mandatory rest; you’re just tired from your mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Runner Confined

**Author's Note:**

> Okay this one is a little weird. I really should just write shippy stuff instead of stuff like this xD. It's in 2nd POV and it's not exactly Runner Five, it could be just about anyone. I guess it would be Five though? I dunno man. There aren't really any spoilers here either, I guess a tiny one for the 5k but if you know who Rajit is, you're golden.
> 
> Also come say hi on tumblr? I'm tumblyorro there :)

 

Your leg wobbles a little as you run past the gates into Abel Township. Before anyone can notice, you slow down, waving to Evan up in the tower to let him know you’re fine. Runner Seven is observant and he would definitely notice if you were off. But you’re not exhausted, not the bone deep kind that needs medical attention and mandatory rest; you’re just tired from your mission.

 

The bag you have is full of mostly food this time, and you want to go drop it off directly to Francesca, but there are also a few electronics that you picked up along the way. Either way you have to go get checked over by Maxine first. You pull your headset off your ears and let it hang around your neck as you make your way to the hospital. If Sam needs anything you’ll be able to hear it; it’s not hard to miss Sam’s panicked voice and you quickly stir your thoughts away from that subject.

 

There’s a crowd in the waiting room, same as usual, so after you check in you go sit as close to the radio as possible. Eugene is currently talking about the different areas that have been cleared of zombies; sadly it’s a short segment but the music isn’t half bad this time around. It’s in some other language, maybe French or Italian or something, since Jack has declared it as a kind of multicultural week.

 

You fold your arms as you carefully lean against the plastic chair. It’s towards the end of the day so most runners have finished their missions. There aren’t any kids in so it’s on the quiet side, and while the chair is uncomfortable, your head lolls onto your chest a bit. It was a hard run today. Crawlers are always nasty to deal with.

 

When Dr. Myers calls you in she apologizes for the wait. You’re just thankful you have an actual doctor here. Other places aren’t so lucky. You’re about to ask when the next game night is taking place when she speaks.

 

“What’s this?”

 

You frown and your stomach drops as you look where she’s pointing to. It’s easy to miss cuts and scrapes, and to be honest, you’ve kind of stopped looking. You count on Dr. Myers to fix up the worst of them, and you try to avoid them to begin with. When you’re out you’re more worried about zombies and picking up supplies than taking note of where you’ve been banged up. Adrenaline is nice for keeping your mind off any pain.

 

So it’s not a surprise that you’ve got a gash on your leg except you can’t remember getting it. Your mind churns franticly as it tries to think. Dr. Myers isn’t rushing you, but she’s tense and that just makes you wish to high heaven that your answer was different.

 

“There were crawlers,” you whisper and you try to take a deep breath before continuing. It’s too shallow to get you the air you need but you keep talking. “It jumped at me. I thought I avoided it but...”

 

And you can’t continue because the alternative is too much. You’re a runner, you aren’t supposed to be a shambling zombie, attacking the very people you’ve worked so hard to protect. This isn’t the way it’s meant to happen.

 

People go grey at different rates, so if you were bitten, it’s not a surprise that you haven’t turned yet. Not a surprise that you could have just come right into the heart of the township-

 

No.

 

It doesn’t have to be a bite. It could just be a scratch.

 

You keep repeating that to yourself. You have to because the alternative is not acceptable.

 

“We have to take precautions,” Dr. Myers says, and you agree, but you just don’t want it to be you. You don’t want to turn.

 

She picks up the phone and makes a call, but the voice sounds so far away. You don’t want to become a zombie, it could just be a scratch, it doesn’t have to be a bite, you don’t want to become a zombie. Your thoughts keep looping and they don’t stop till Dr. Myers puts a hand on your shoulder.

 

“Janine is on her way.” Dr. Myers hesitates. “It might be just a scratch.”

 

It’s too dangerous to take that chance, and you want to say that, to reassure her just as much as yourself, but even though your lips move the words won’t come out. You take to staring at the clock on Dr. Myers desk; the clock moves slow, but watching the hands move lets you know that time is passing by.

 

Janine comes in, a little out of breath; you’ve gone numb by this point so it doesn’t matter who it is. But Janine will take care of business. Something in you stirs at that; if you are a zombie, then you’re business, just another living dead to put down before you much on someone’s brains. There’s a pang in your chest, part hurt and rage, but it’s too far down, tempered by so much fear. You don’t want to become a thing.

 

“Come along,” Janine says, and you get up to follow after her. “Simply a precaution, you understand that of course. Can’t have you going grey right in the middle of the township, after all.”

 

Janine doesn’t expect any response which is great because your voice has long since fled. It’s dark by now, but there are still plenty of people outside, milling about. No one notices you though, at least, you’re pretty sure no one does. It’s hard to focus on anything other than following Janine.

 

She stops at one of the storage facilities. Runner Seven is there, and he’s holding a gun. You know what the plan is even before Janine says it.

 

“We don’t have cells or quarantine rooms here at Abel so this’ll have to do. Mr. Deaubl will take the first shift. If you do turn try not to wreck everything.”

 

“Janine.” Evan’s voice is full of admonishment, but Janine brushes him off.

 

“Obviously, we are all hoping that isn’t the case. But as you both well know supplies are hard to come by.”

 

“It’s okay,” you say, surprising them as much as yourself. You clear your throat and try to smile. “It’s okay.”

 

It’s all you can say, but you need them to know that you understand. That you’d do the same thing if it were anyone else. You walk into the storage room and try to take a deep breath. It’s silent for a moment before Janine makes an approving hum.

 

“Just a precaution,” Janine says again before closing the door.

 

There’s about a minute of silence before Evan calls out to you. He must have waited for Janine to leave.

 

“Janine’s just worried. I’m sure you’ll be alright. If you need anything just give a holler; I’ll be here for the first shift.”

 

To shoot you dead if it does turn out to be a zombie bite. You stifle a giggle. You’re actually glad, in some twisted morbid way, that it’s Runner Seven here. He’s dependable; he won’t let you hurt someone you care about. He’ll look you in the eye and that’s worth something to you.

 

You walk around the small space; you’ll be here for the night and you’ll want a place to lie down. Sleep probably won’t happen. But you have to think that you’re going to get back out there and you won’t be any good if you’re tired.

 

You pull out a blanket, mentally apologizing to Rajit for dirtying it, and shake it out to lay it flat on the ground. It’s worn out and the corners are frayed. You kneel down to run your hand over them, splaying the threads out and trying to keep from picking at the loose ends. Blankets aren’t a priority for runs, but everyone needs and uses them.

 

The color is faded, and in the winter time, it would be useless for warmth. You wonder where it came from. A runner could have stripped it from a bed in an empty home, a looted shop, a linen closet in hotel room; the important thing is that it isn’t stained. Where it came from is moot, but you may as well ponder on it because there’s nothing else to do.

 

You sit down, smoothing out the blanket from where it bunches up against the shelf. The shelves are flimsy, and while you worry that one will somehow fall over, you aren’t worried that it’ll kill you. It’ll probably just give you a bit of a bruise, if you’re still human enough to bruise; zombies don’t seem to get bruises. And if you do turn, well, maybe it can pin you down long enough to give someone a safe chance to come in and blow your brains out.

 

Your breath hitches as you think of that, and you shake your head to try to get rid of the thought. It doesn’t help to think like that. You’re going to be locked in here for a whole twenty four hours; that’s not a topic that you’ll be able to ignore if you get started on it.

 

You pull your knees up and rest your head on them, folding your arms in between your legs and your chest, tapping your index finger against your arm. By now you should be in your tent, stretching out and unwinding from a hard day’s run. You would be listening to Eugene and Jack on Radio Abel, hearing the mish mash of music that they’ve managed to get their hands on, either through trading or borrowing, hoping for a song that you recognize from the time before the zombie apocalypse went down. And alternatively praying Jack hasn’t ‘found a gem’ of a disc. No one has quite forgiven him for the week of yodelling.

 

You would be listening closely anytime they mention areas cleared out, areas newly infested, areas where Deadlocks are showing up, where New Canton is poking around. Sam Yao is your radio operator and you trust him with your life. But emergencies happen all of the time and you need to know these things in a heartbeat so you can make the right call if his cameras are down or when you’re out of his range.

 

The storage room isn’t interesting to look at. So many of the shelves are empty or only partially filled. Rajit is always asking for more supplies, but the truth is, everyone always is. Francesca asks for food, Dr. Myers asks for medicine, Janine asks for electronics, everyone asks for something. And that’s your job; you’re a runner and it’s your job to get these things so that everyone in the township can live and hopefully one day begin to prosper again.

 

Although with the zombie apocalypse technically living is a form of prospering.

 

You take a deep breath, then another, then another, repeating until you’re calm again. You aren’t going to get mad about this. If someone else had gotten careless and hurt, you’d have wanted to make sure that they were quarantined, at least until it came out whether they were infected or not. You would have happily taken a watch to make sure they didn’t escape. Because the safety of the township is far more important than one person’s feelings.

 

You rub at your wrist and wish for a watch. There’s no way to tell time, no way to know how much longer you have to go before you know if you’re clear or not. The only thing you know is that it’s night time. You glance at the door; you know someone is outside and they could tell you the time. They could probably even talk to you.

 

But they’re also out there waiting with a bullet for you.

 

You lie down and curl up as if that could keep all the ills of the world away. ‘Like a child,’ you think to yourself but the words don’t come out as chiding as you had intended. Because it’s too true, true for everyone, and too close to it all. It makes you remember home and your family and everything that is gone.

 

You press your hands against your mouth. If you start crying now you won’t stop. And there’s no reason to cry (even though there’s all the reason to).

 

There’s a knock at the door and you sit up, wondering if you hallucinated it. It’s a bit early for losing your mind, and you wonder if that’s a stage of the zombification process that no one has bothered to mention. But then Evan’s voice follows, asking if you’re awake.

 

“Dr. Myers mentioned you hadn’t eaten dinner. I’m awfully sorry about this but if you could move to the back of the room, as far as you can.” His voice trails off; later, you will appreciate that he’s uncomfortable with this. But for now you’re just trying to keep your head on.

 

You try to force a smile to show that you’re alright, but the weak attempt you make freezes when you see a gun pointed right at you. It’s just in case, Evan says as he pushes a box forward into the room. The door slams shut again and you welcome it this time.

 

There’s something tight in your chest and you don’t move for a while. You wish you could be out of here. It’s not until your stomach threatens to growl that you finally go and grope around in the dark for the box of food. You get as far away from the door as possible and lean up against the shelves.

 

It’s hard to see what’s exactly in the box but of course you might be a zombie come morning. Why waste precious light on the dead? Why waste common decency on them? Just point a gun at them, remind them that they’re probably dead already, it doesn’t matter. You grip a can and fight the urge to throw it.

 

No point in wasting food though (no point in anything if you were bitten but no, you mustn't think like that) especially when it’s so hard to find. Because of course you of all people know that. There’s nothing else to do, and this could be your last meal, so you chew each bite slowly.

 

You could have brought in this very can of soup and wouldn’t have that just been hilarious? God you hate your brain right now. At least if you’re a zombie you won’t be thinking like this anymore. All you’ll be thinking about is eating brains instead.

 

You force yourself to set the can down very slowly. You’re a runner, you have control over your body, and you will not throw a fit and smash the can or box, no matter how good it would feel.

 

Part of you wants to curl back up but you’re too jittery for that. Instead you stand up and begin stretching. There isn’t enough room to run and jogging in place makes you feel like a moron, but you have to do something otherwise you’ll start screaming.

 

It helps a little, to run through your usual drills, though not as much as you’d like to hope. With every stretch of your muscles you remember your last run, wishing you had avoided the crawler better. If you’d been faster, more aware, something more.

 

You get on your hands and knees, about to start a round of push ups when instead you just drop and lie there. If you turn there’s no point to this.

 

All you can do is wait.

 

Wait for the cough, for the chills, for the fever, for death, for undeath.

 

No, you think, drawing your hand into a fist against the dirt. Just no. You don’t want this, but since this whole zombie apocalypse started, when has it mattered what you want? This isn’t even about you, this quarantine; it’s about protecting the people of Abel.

 

Is it worth it?

 

It’s easier to silence the voices in your head when you’re out there, between your friends, in the midst of the people you try to help and protect. When you, or someone else, can quietly voice the thought in the back of everyone’s mind as you all lie in bed. And when everyone can understand and reassure one another that everything will work out.

 

Because if someone doubts they can upset the whole thing. People are fragile as they are strong. They comfort each other as much as themselves.

 

Is all of this effort worth it?

 

Here, alone, you can’t shut the thought up.

 

You court death everytime you go out and run. Risking your life for things like food and medicine. Once these were things you had taken for granted. Now you have to fight both humans and zombies for them. You don’t even know if you’ll find something. Sometimes you come back all but empty handed.

 

And there is no promise that you’re going to come back.

 

There isn’t even a guarantee you’ll have a place to come back to or that the hard fought defenses of the township will last the night.

 

Though it’s not like you’re safe right now either.

 

You close your eyes tight and wish this was over. The waiting is eating away at every last bit of control you have. As much as you try it’s impossible to relax the tension in your muscles. Part of you thinks that feeling anything, even the sick coil of apprehension, is better than the probably nothing a zombie feels. The undead are nothing, feel nothing, think nothing, and you don’t want that.

 

It’s hard to believe in anything when you’re locked in a storage room though.

 

So maybe you’re already dead and just slightly more aware.

 

You shuffle over onto the blanket and instead of curling up again, you keep your limbs wide open, and lie on your back and stare at the roof of the storage room.

 

You hate this.

 

You hate this.

 

You hate this.

 

You hate this.

 

It’s your fault for being so careless and sloppy and cocky. You probably could have avoided this. If you had just been faster or quicker or something.

 

You roll onto your side and draw your arms in as close as possible. Your thoughts are repeating and you know this; but it’s too hard to stop them. There’s nothing else to do, nothing else to think about, and you know this is simply one of the first cycles of repetition.

 

If you make it through this with a clean bill of health you’re going to take more care next time.

 

You start to drift off with that thought in mind. Stressing about the possibility of becoming a zombie has staved sleep off but runs are always hard on your body. You need your rest.

 

Much as you know that, you also know that the deep sleep you really need isn’t going to happen tonight. It’s been awhile since you had to sleep on the ground, and you’ve grown accustomed to having a bed, even if the pillows are flat and the springs creak with every movement.

 

The only dream you have is inevitably of a crawler, but even though you wake up in a cold sweat, the memory of it vanishes moments after.

 

You run your hand over your face, head pounding and aching enough that you lie back down. There’s no point to getting up. You’re locked in here for at least a day, maybe more, and you should have asked but you hadn’t been nearly aware enough to consider something like that.

 

Your head isn’t exactly clear but you can’t find yourself bothering to care. Maybe indifference is a type of clarity of its own.

 

There’s light coming from around the door, and you wonder what time it is. Perhaps it’s morning or maybe you slept till the afternoon. You dearly hope it’s the latter.

 

You stand up slowly to stretch out the kinks in your neck and back and that’s when you notice the food by the door. You don’t remember seeing the door open but something in your mind itches and you wonder if you were half awake to see it. There’s only one box but it’s not of the usual breakfasts of oatmeal and porridge, it’s of the usual lunches of unidentified meats and beans.

 

You put off eating it for as long as possible only because that gives you something to do. And it takes you a long time to feel hungry. At least, you think it’s a long time; it could very well just be a few minutes. There’s no way to tell time. Yes, you can hear the muffled sounds of life and activity from Abel, but it doesn’t tell you anything.

 

The food is tasteless but you still lick the spoon. You can’t run on an empty stomach.

 

You hold onto the spoon for a while after; it’s easier to fidget with it and it gives your hands something to do.

 

It’s hard to hold still; with each second that passes by that you don’t cough, you’re more assured that you avoided being bitten. And if you weren’t bitten then you want to get out of this damn storage room and back outside.

 

You watch the door (or more specifically the light around the door).

 

Once it starts to fade, once it’s dark again, then they’ll let you out. They can’t keep you here for longer than that. They have to let you out.

 

You’re a runner, you’ve probably got a faster metabolism, so really, this whole day thing is just being cautious. And you can get that, you can, it’s logical.

 

It helps to repeat yourself.

 

(You wonder if this is a sign of going crazy.)

 

(The way you laugh at it each time you think that probably confirms it.)

 

You dig your hands into the dirt. You’d shaken the blanket out and folded it up, placing it back onto the shelf. The blankets on the bottom shelves are all covered in bits of dirt anyway. Someone should really mention to Rajit that but it isn’t going to be you. The minute you get out of here you’re going to forget this ever happened. And you’re going to avoid this storage room forever.

 

You’re careful to keep your leg off the ground since Dr. Myers hadn’t had a chance to give you a bandage for it. You don’t want to hear another lecture on infections and diseases.

 

The light fades so slowly. You watch it closely because it’s the only way to believe that time really is passing by.

 

Waiting is hard.

 

You wish for so many things.

 

For entertainment, distraction.

 

For things to be different.

 

For zombie apocalypses to be nothing more than fiction.

 

You hate this.

 

You run your fingers over the dried blood on your leg.

 

If it scars you’re going to cry.

 

Because you don’t want a reminder of this day to exist.

 

The sooner everyone forgets (and of course they will they weren’t the ones locked up) the better.

 

You try to tap out seconds with the spoon against your palm.

 

You stop when you realize you’re going to fast, and then too slow, and then too fast, and then too slow. Except you’re not actually going slow enough you’re just going slower than you were before.

 

There’s a set of shadows (shoes feet someone) at the door, blocking out what little light is left, and then the door swings open.

 

You stay where you are, eyes purposefully wide open even as it hurts against the weak light of sunset after the dark of the enclosed room; you’re not a zombie, you’re not a threat, don’t shoot don’t shoot don’t shoot.

 

“Dr. Myers says you’re clear,” Janine says. She smiles at you, pleased, and you want to bash her head in.

 

You stand up carefully and try not to run out. Each step is careful, and the moment you’re out of the room, you can breathe again. You don’t look at the man next to the open door who has his eyes glued to you. He’s got a gun in his hand and you don’t want to think about this anymore.

 

Janine is by your side, taking you back to Dr. Myers; she quickly mentions how thrilled Abel is for you and that your missions for tomorrow have been cleared. You’ve been given a day off, more if Dr. Myers thinks your experience has been traumatic enough, but she reminds you that everyone has to pull their weight. Everyone has to contribute.

 

You’re thankful that she stops talking after that. For both your sakes.

 

Janine sweeps you past the usual crowd in the hospital waiting room and leaves you with Dr. Myers. You answer all of the doctor’s questions; assure her you’re going to be fine, insist that you understand, ask about reducing scarring, and near beg to be allowed to run as soon as possible.

 

When she clears you, you make sure that you don’t tear out of the room; by the time you’re outside of the hospital you can’t remember a lick of what was said in the conversation.

 

You want to run straight to your bed, to get there before the other people in your room turn in for the night so that hopefully you have some privacy. You were just in a room all by yourself for twenty four hours and you want to be alone. You’d laugh at that but there’s no way you can laugh in public right now. You haven’t heard it yet but your laugh would be frightening, and completely unfit for people to hear.

 

The door is locked so you know the room is empty. You pause for a breath of a moment to drink in the sight. Your bed is the same as you left it, a tangle of the single pillow and the thin sheet you use for a blanket. It’s unchanged.

 

You pretty much fall onto your bed and for a moment you consider just not moving. Then you hide yourself under the blanket and try to make sure your sobs are as quiet as possible so that no one will hear you. Because the tears that you held back for the past twenty four hours are here, and you don’t want comfort from people equally as frightened as you. People who locked you up for a whole day and planned to potentially shoot you.

 

You just want to forget this day ever happened. Pretend that everyone was right, that nothing hurts, that you can still trust Abel, that everything is fine. It’ll be easier to get out tomorrow and go on another run that way.


End file.
